On Creation

It is a pity
The Inner Eye cannot
Wield pencil, brush, or, paint
If it could,
I would paint...

From the left,
An Olympian hand
Elbow shrouded in finest silk
Squeezing with abandon
A mortal chest, until,
From the puny eyes, ears, and mouth,
Bursts forth
A brilliant yellow light
To arrest
A Stygian dark

And I would call it
"Creation!"

Or perhaps
I would paint...

Two mortals,
Cowering, and Confident,
Atop a chariot
On a field of battle
No glory, gold, no halos,
Only kin,
Arrayed for slaughter,
Adorned in boiled leather;
One holds in his hands
A puny bow, awaiting
Stone tipped arrows
From a wooden quiver
Dipped, in lethal intent
The other spews forth
A steady stream
Of heady justification,
Deadlier than any weapon
Under a sky
Blood-red with fate

And I would call it
"War!"

A pity, thus,
(Or relief!)
That my Eye but paints
With words...